Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “I know every stone of the Abbey by heart. No, I have been dawdling about the grounds all the afternoon. It is much too warm for riding or driving.”

  Lady Mabel strangled an incipient yawn. She had not yawned once in all her talk with Lord Mallow. Rorie stifled another, and Lord Mallow walked up and down among the pine-needles, like a caged lion. It would have been polite to leave the lovers to themselves, perhaps. They might have family matters to discuss, settlements, wedding presents, Heaven knows what. But Lord Mallow was not going to leave them alone. He was in a savage humour, in which the petty rules and regulations of a traditionary etiquette were as nothing to him. So he stayed, pacing restlessly, with his hands in his pockets, and inwardly delighted at the stupid spectacle presented by the affianced lovers, who had nothing to say to each other, and were evidently bored to the last degree by their own society.

  “This is the deplorable result of trying to ferment the small beer of cousinly affection into the Maronean wine of passionate love,” thought Lord Mallow. “Idiotic parents have imagined that these two people ought to marry, because they were brought up together, and the little girl took kindly to the little boy. What little girl does not take kindly to anything in the shape of a boy, when they are both in the nursery? Hence these tears.”

  “I am going to pour out mamma’s tea,” Lady Mabel said presently, keenly sensible of the stupidity of her position. “Will you come, Roderick? Mamma will be glad to know that you are alive. She was wondering about you all the time we were at luncheon.”

  “I ought not to have been off duty so long,” Mr. Vawdrey answered meekly; “but if you could only imagine the stupidity of those bricklayers! The day before yesterday I found half-a-dozen stalwart fellows sitting upon a wall, with their hands in their corduroy pockets, smoking short pipes, and, I believe, talking politics. They pretended to be at a standstill because their satellites — their âmes damnées, the men who hold their hods and mix their mortar — had not turned up. ‘Don’t disturb yourselves, gentlemen,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing like taking things easy. It’s a time-job. I’ll send you the morning papers and a can of beer.’ And so I did, and since that day, do you know, the fellows have worked twice as hard. They don’t mind being bullied; but they can’t stand chaff.”

  “What an interesting bit of character,” said Lady Mabel, with a faintly perceptible sneer. “Worthy of Henri Constant.”

  “May I come to the Duchess’s kettledrum?’ asked Lord Mallow humbly.

  “By all means,” answered Mabel. “How fond you gentlemen pretend to be of afternoon tea, nowadays. But I don’t believe it is the tea you really care for. It is the gossip you all like. Darwin has found out that the male sex is the vain sex: but I don’t think he has gone so far as to discover another great truth. It is the superior sex for whom scandal has the keenest charm.”

  “I have never heard the faintest hiss of the serpent slander at the Duchess’s tea-table,” said Lord Mallow.

  “No; we are dreadfully behind the age,” assented Lady Mabel. “We continue to exist without thinking ill of our neighbours.”

  They all three sauntered towards the house, choosing the sheltered ways, and skirting the broad sunny lawn, whose velvet sward, green even in this tropical July, was the result of the latest improvements in cultivation, ranging from such simple stimulants as bone-dust and wood-ashes to the last development of agricultural chemistry. Lady Mabel and her companions were for the most part silent during this leisurely walk home, and, when one of them hazarded an observation, the attempt at conversation had a forced air, and failed to call forth any responsive brilliancy in the others.

  The Duchess looked provokingly cool and comfortable in her morning-room, which was an airy apartment on the first-floor, with a wide window opening upon a rustic balcony, verandahed and trellised, garlanded with passion-flowers and Australian clematis, and altogether sheltered from sun and wind. The most reposeful sofas, the roomiest arm-chairs in all the house were to be found here, covered with a cool shining chintz of the good old-fashioned sort, apple-blossoms and spring-flowers on a white ground.

  A second window in a corner opened into a small fernery, in which there was a miniature water-fall that trickled with a slumberous sound over moss-grown rockwork. There could hardly have been a better room for afternoon tea on a sultry summer day; and afternoon tea at Ashbourne included iced coffee, and the finest peaches and nectarines that were grown in the county; and when the Duke happened to drop in for a chat with his wife and daughter, sometimes went as far as sherry and Angustura bitters.

  The Duchess received her daughter with her usual delighted air, as if the ethereal-looking young lady in India muslin had verily been a goddess.

  “I hope you have not been fatiguing yourself in the orchid-houses on such an afternoon as this, my pet,” she said anxiously.

  “No, indeed, mamma; it is much too warm for the orchid-houses. I have been in the shrubbery reading, or trying to read, but it is dreadful sleepy weather. We shall all be glad to get some tea. Oh, here it comes.”

  A match pair of footmen brought a pair of silver trays: caddy, kettle, and teapot, and cups and saucers on one; and a lavish pile of fruit, such as Lance would have loved to paint, on the other.

  Lady Mabel took up the quaint little silver caddy and made the tea. Roderick began to eat peaches. Lord Mallow, true to his nationality, seated himself by the Duchess, and paid her a compliment.

  “There are some more parcels for you, Mabel,” said the fond mother presently, glancing at a side-table, where sundry neatly-papered packets suggested jewellery.

  “More presents, I suppose,” the young lady murmured languidly. “Now I do hope people have not sent me any more jewellery. I wear so little, and I—”

  Have so much, she was going to say, but checked herself on the verge of a remark that savoured of vulgar arrogance.

  She went on with the tea-making, uncurious as to the inside of those dainty-looking parcels. She had been surfeited with presents before she left her nursery. A bracelet or a locket more or less could not make the slightest difference in her feelings. She entertained a condescending pity for the foolish people who squandered their money in buying her such things, when they ought to know that she had a superfluity of much finer jewels than any they could give her.

  “Don’t you want to see your presents?” asked Rorie, looking at her, in half-stupid wonder at such calm superiority.

  “They will keep till we have done tea. I can guess pretty well what they are like. How many church-services have people sent me, mamma?”

  “I think the last made fourteen,” murmured the Duchess, trifling with her tea-spoon.

  “And how many ‘Christian Years’?”

  “Nine.”

  “And how many copies of Doré’s ‘Idylls of the King’?”

  “One came this morning from Mrs. Scobel. I think it was the fifth.”

  “How many lockets inscribed with A. E. I. or ‘Mizpah’?”

  “My darling, I could not possibly count those. There were three more by post this morning.”

  “You see there is rather a sameness in these things,” said Lady Mabel; “and you can understand why I am not rabidly curious about the contents of these parcels. I feel sure there will be another ‘Mizpah’ among them.”

  She had received Lord Mallow’s tribute, an Irish jaunting-car, built upon the newest lines, and altogether a most perfect vehicle for driving to a meet in, so light and perfectly balanced as to travel safely through the ruttiest glade in Mark Ash.

  Rorie’s gifts had all been given, so Lady Mabel could afford to make light of the unopened parcels without fear of wounding the feelings of anyone present.

  They were opened by-and-by, when the Duke came in from his farm, sorely disturbed in his mind at the serious indisposition of a six-hundred-guinea cart-horse, which hapless prize animal had been fatted to such an inflammatory condition that in his case the commonest ailment might prove deadly. Depressed by thi
s calamity, the Duke required to be propped up with sherry and Angustura bitters, which tonic mixture was presently brought to him by one of the match footmen, who looked very much as if he were suffering from the same plethoric state that was likely to prove fatal to the cart-horse. Happily, the footman’s death would be but a temporary inconvenience. The Duke had not given six hundred guineas for him.

  Lady Mabel opened her parcels, in the hope of distracting her father from the contemplation of his trouble.

  “From whom can this be?” she asked wonderingly, “with the Jersey post-mark? Do I know anyone in Jersey?”

  Roderick grew suddenly crimson, and became deeply absorbed in the business of peeling a nectarine.

  “I surely cannot know anyone in Jersey,” said Lady Mabel, in languid wonderment. “It is an altogether impossible place. Nobody in society goes there. It sounds almost as disreputable as Boulogne.”

  “You’d better open the packet,” said Rorie, with a quiver in his voice.

  “Perhaps it is from some of your friends,” speculated Mabel.

  She broke the seal, and tore the cover off a small morocco case.

  “What a lovely pair of earrings!” she exclaimed.

  Each eardrop was a single turquoise, almost as large, and quite as clear in colour, as a hedge-sparrow’s egg. The setting was Roman, exquisitely artistic.

  “Now I can forgive anyone for sending me such jewellery as that,” said Lady Mabel. “It is not the sort of thing one sees in every jeweller’s shop.”

  Rorie looked at the blue stones with rueful eyes. He knew them well. He had seen them contrasted with ruddy chestnut hair, and the whitest skin in Christendom — or at any rate the whitest he had ever seen, and a man’s world can be but the world he knows.

  “There is a letter,” said Lady Mabel. “Now I shall find out all about my mysterious Jersey friend.”

  She read the letter aloud.

  “Les Tourelles, Jersey, July 25th.

  “Dear Lady Mabel, — I cannot bear that your wedding-day should go by without bringing you some small token of regard from your husband’s old friend. Will you wear these earrings now and then, and believe that they come from one who has nothing but good wishes for Rorie’s wife? — Yours very truly,

  “VIOLET TEMPEST.”

  “Why, they are actually from your old playfellow!” cried Mabel, with a laugh that had not quite a genuine ring in its mirth. “The young lady who used to follow the staghounds, in a green habit with brass buttons, ever so many years ago, and who insisted on calling you Rorie. She does it still, you see. How very sweet of her to send me a wedding-present. I ought to have remembered. I heard something about her being sent off to Jersey by her people, because she had grown rather incorrigible at home.”

  “She was not incorrigible, and she was not sent off to Jersey,” said Roderick grimly. “She left home of her own free will; because she could not hit it with her stepfather.”

  “That is another way of expressing it, but I think we both mean pretty much the same thing,” retorted Mabel. “But I don’t want to know why she went to Jersey. She has behaved very sweetly in sending me such a pretty letter; and when she is at home again I shall be very happy to see her at my garden-parties.”

  Lord Mallow had no share in this conversation, for the Duke had buttonholed him, and was giving him a detailed account of the cart-horse’s symptoms.

  The little party dispersed soon after this, and did not foregather again until just before dinner, when the people who had been to see the ruins were all assembled, full of their day’s enjoyment, and of sundry conversational encounters which they had had with the natives of the district. They gave themselves the usual airs which people who have been laboriously amusing themselves inflict upon those wiser individuals who prefer the passive pleasure of repose, and made a merit of having exposed themselves to the meridian sun, in the pursuit of archaeological knowledge.

  Lady Mabel looked pale and weary all that evening. Roderick was so evidently distrait that the good-natured Duke thought that he must be worrying himself about the cart-horse, and begged him to make his mind easy, as it was possible the animal might even yet recover.

  Later on in the evening Lady Mabel and Lord Mallow sat in the conservatory and talked Irish politics, while Rorie and the younger members of the house party played Nap. The conservatory was deliciously cool on this summer evening, dimly lighted by lamps that were half hidden among the palms and orange-trees. Lady Mabel and her companion could see the stars shining through the open doorway, and the mystical darkness of remote woods. Their voices were hushed; there were pauses of silence in their talk. Never had the stirring question of Home Rule been more interesting.

  Lady Mabel did not go back to the drawing-room that evening. There was a door leading from the conservatory to the hall; and, while Rorie and the young people were still somewhat noisily engaged in the game of Napoleon, Lady Mabel went out to the hall with Lord Mallow in attendance upon her. When he had taken her candle from the table and lighted it, he paused for a moment or so before he handed it to her, looking at her very earnestly all the while, as she stood at the foot of the staircase, with saddened face and downcast eyes, gravely contemplative of the stair-carpet.

  “Is it — positively — too late?” he asked.

  “You must feel and know that it is so,” she answered.

  “But it might have been?”

  “Yes,” she murmured with a faint sigh, “it might have been.”

  He gave her the candlestick, and she went slowly upstairs, without a word of good-night. He stood in the hall, watching the slim figure as it ascended, aerial and elegant in its palely-tinted drapery.

  “It might have been,” he repeated to himself: and then he lighted his candle and went slowly up the staircase. He was in no humour for billiards, cigars, or noisy masculine talk to-night. Still less was he inclined to be at ease and to make merry with Roderick Vawdrey.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  Wedding Bells.

  Vixen had been more than a year in the island of Jersey. She had lived her lonely and monotonous existence, and made no moan. It was a dreary exile; but it seemed to her that there was little else for her to do in life but dawdle through the long slow days, and bear the burden of living; at least until she came of age, and was independent, and could go where she pleased. Then there would be the wide world for her to wander over, instead of this sea-girdled garden of Jersey. She had reasons of her own for so quietly submitting to this joyless life. Mrs. Winstanley kept her informed of all that was doing in Hampshire, and even at the Queen Anne house at Kensington. She knew that Roderick Vawdrey’s wedding-day was fixed for the first of August. Was it not better that she should be far away, hidden from her small world; while those marriage bells were ringing across the darkening beech-woods?

  Her sacrifice had not been in vain. Her lover had speedily forgotten that brief madness of last midsummer, and had returned to his allegiance. There had been no cloud upon the loves of the plighted cousins — no passing gust of dissension. If there had been, Mrs. Winstanley would have known all about it. Her letters told only of harmonious feeling and perpetual sunshine.

  “Lady Mabel is looking prettier than ever,” she wrote, in the last week of July, “that ethereal loveliness which I so much admire. Her waist cannot be more than eighteen inches. I cannot find out who makes her dresses, but they are exquisitely becoming to her; though, for my own part, I do not think the style equal to Theodore’s. But then I always supplemented Theodore’s ideas with my own suggestions.

  “I hear that the trousseau is something wonderful. The lingerie is in quite a new style; a special make of linen has been introduced at Bruges on purpose for the occasion, and I have heard that the loom is to be broken and no more made. But this is perhaps exaggeration. The lace has all been made in Buckinghamshire, from patterns a hundred years old — very quaint and pretty. There is an elegant simplicity about everything, Mrs. Scobel tells me, which is very charming. T
he costumes for the Norwegian tour are heather-coloured water-proof cloth, with stitched borders, plain to the last degree, but with a chic that redeems their plainness.

  “Conrad and I received an early invitation to the wedding. He will go; but I have refused, on the ground of ill-health. And, indeed, my dear Violet, this is no idle excuse. My health has been declining ever since you left us. I was always a fragile creature, as you know, even in your dear papa’s time; but of late the least exertion has made me tremble like a leaf. I bear up, for Conrad’s sake. He is so anxious and unhappy when he sees me suffer, and I am glad to spare him anxiety.

  “Your old friend, Mr. Vawdrey, looks well and happy, but I do not see much of him. Believe me, dear, you acted well and wisely in leaving home when you did. It would have been a dreadful thing if Lady Mabel’s engagement had been broken off on account of an idle flirtation between you and Rorie. It would have left a stain upon your name for life. Girls do not think of these things. I’m afraid I flirted a little myself when I was first out, and admiration was new to me; but I married so young that I escaped some of the dangers you have had to pass through.

  “Roderick is making considerable improvements and alterations at Briarwood. He is trying to make the house pretty — I fear an impossible task. There is a commonplace tone about the building that defies improvement. The orchid-houses at Ashbourne are to be taken down and removed to Briarwood. The collection has been increasing ever since Lady Jane Vawdrey’s death, and is now one of the finest in England. But to my mind the taste is a most foolish one. Dear Conrad thinks me extravagant for giving sixty guineas for a dress — what might he not think if I gave as much for a single plant? Lord Mallow is staying at Ashbourne for the wedding. His success in the House of Commons has made him quite a lion. He called and took tea with me the other day. He is very nice. Ah, my dearest Violet, what a pity you could not like him. It would have been such a splendid match for you, and would have made Conrad and me so proud and happy.”